The last boyfriend I had, I shot
by heatqueen
Summary: Shooting your boyfriend isn't something anyone expects to happen to them. It happened to Stella. Looking back, she wonders why.


**The last boyfriend I had, I shot**

**Summary: Shooting your boyfriend isn't something anyone expects to happen to them. It happened to Stella. Looking back, she wonders why.**

Shooting one's boyfriend was not something I expected to happen to me of all people. Things like this didn't happen to me, they happened to those poor people on the news channel, probably living on the other side of New York City where they would never cross my path, who I would spend five minutes pitying before switching off the TV and going to work.

But those people had to deal with the consequences of their situations. While the public stood and watched the surface drama, someone out there would always have to deal with the hard emotions, the coming to terms with the situation. This time it was my turn. I remember the headline on the day after I shot Frankie - Shock! Horror! CSI shoots boyfriend! - to which people would make coffee conversation over: "Did you hear about that CSI who shot her boyfriend?" "Yeah, poor thing, shouldn't have to happen to anyone…"

It was casual, typical, well for most people anyway. But it's always someone's problem, and this time it was mine.

I struggled with my feelings for Frankie a long while after. For the most part I'd seen the nice, sweet sculptor side of him. It had only been in the very last day when everything had come to light that I'd seen his darker side. It confused me like hell because I still liked the nice side of him - I even missed it, and when I thought of it that way it made me feel horrible for shooting him. Then I would remind myself how he'd made me a victim in my own home and suddenly the shooting would seem justified, and I would still feel bad because I just managed to justify killing a person.

I took life. I don't believe in playing God, but I took life. Yes, it was in self-defence, but part of me wonders if there would have been any hope for Frankie if he was still alive. He would never have a chance to redeem himself, never be able to ameliorate his actions or move on. He simply no longer existed. It seemed a large price to pay for his heartbreak getting the better of him.

But it wasn't a large price to pay for assaulting me. I would have probably died if I hadn't done what I did.

Didn't make it right, though.

I started grieving from the moment when I woke up in hospital. I don't cry very often but that day I cried like hell. I cried out of both confusion and sadness, and simply the shock of the situation. I cried for Frankie, that I had taken his life against either of our will. I cried that it had even come to this because it wasn't how I imagined me and Frankie working out. After the sex video I'd thought I would simply move on from him and never see him again. I'd never imagined shooting him a short while later.

What hurt the most was that I was the one in this situation. I'm a CSI, I should have seen it coming. Somehow I should have worked out what was going to happen before it did. And yet I'd been stupid enough to allow myself to be fooled by his charm, and now look where I was. Shattered inside and distrusting of men.

People told me that I couldn't have possibly known. Do I believe them? I want to, like hell I do. But in truth I couldn't bring myself to simply nod and tell them they're right, that there is no way I could have known. I don't know how I thought I could have worked it out, just that somehow, by some miracle, I should have seen it coming.

I made out that I was okay once I returned to work. Obviously Mac didn't believe me, he even disputed my return - "When you're ready, not before," he'd said. I don't think I was ever really ready. There isn't any one defined moment where I suddenly thought "I'm ready." I just took the time off that Mac made me take, then came back acting like it was just a normal day's work. Of course I didn't actually feel normal, but I had to do this if I was going to get back to normal.

It wasn't the same as before. At first I couldn't even sleep in my own apartment. I stayed with Mac for a few days but kept waking up in the middle of the night, sometimes screaming because I thought I was reliving what had happened with Frankie all over again. It got to the point where I simply felt bad so I left and went back home.

Home was no longer safe like it used to be. It had been tainted by the memories of the assault. When I saw the bathroom, I saw blood, and I saw that goddamned razorblade that I used to cut myself free. When I saw the furniture, I saw the statue, again covered in blood, and I saw myself raising my gun and shooting Frankie.

When I looked in the mirror I saw myself and wondered who I was. The answer I got?

The CSI who took life. A contradiction to myself.

I, Stella Bonasera, fight for justice in the world, and I, Stella Bonasera, shot my boyfriend.

It's something I never expected to happen to me of all people.


End file.
